


Being alone is a state of mind

by saturnsfather



Series: what we do inn the apocalypse [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Also Some Friends Who Love And Care For Him 2k20, Gen, Get Wilde Some Healthy Coping Mechanisms 2k20, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, rated t for the f word
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnsfather/pseuds/saturnsfather
Summary: The pain is excruciating, filling the entire right side of his body like a raging inferno. Half his sight goes white, the scream in his throat dying as it tries to reach his lips, and the only noise that’s able to come is a choked sob. His hands spasm, reaching for something, anything to hold onto to brace against the roaring fire in his veins, the flood of white-hot agony that threatens to block out every other sensation in existence. It’s too much, he should be dead by now, no one can survive this kind of pain, he should be dead-
Relationships: Howard Carter & Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)
Series: what we do inn the apocalypse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753462
Comments: 7
Kudos: 43





	Being alone is a state of mind

**Author's Note:**

> listen listen listen listen wilde needs friends. he needs friends and healthy coping mechanisms and if alex newall isnt going to give them to him then I Will

_ The pain is excruciating, filling the entire right side of his body like a raging inferno. Half his sight goes white, the scream in his throat dying as it tries to reach his lips, and the only noise that’s able to come is a choked sob. His hands spasm, reaching for something, anything to hold onto to brace against the roaring fire in his veins, the flood of white-hot agony that threatens to block out every other sensation in existence. It’s too much, he should be dead by now, no one can survive this kind of pain, he should be dead- _

Wilde’s head lifts off his arms with a gasp. Muffled moonlight streaks across the desk in front of him, the curtains swaying ever so slightly in the gentle breeze from outside. His head is pounding, his palms stinging where his nails were digging into them in his sleep. When had he passed out? He’d been working, taking notes on...something.

His mouth is dry. He tries to swallow, his throat constricting painfully as it attempts to comply with his request. It feels wrong. He does his best to shake the afterimage of blue veins, blank eyes from his mind, with little success. His hands shake as he lifts them to his face, digs the heels into his eyes. 

Damnit, the trembling won’t stop.

Wilde almost knocks the chair over when he stands, too quickly, mind racing. The level change is almost too much, his vision spinning and going black for several seconds. Kitchen, it’s just down the hall, he’ll get some water and stop feeling like he wants to cry and everything will be fine, he’ll be fine, and then maybe he’ll stop thinking about that awful voice, ringing in his ears as he sobbed from the pain-

His footsteps echo like thunder in the silence of the apartment as he hurries out to the kitchen. The cold water coming from the faucet when he turns the handle does little for the trembling, but he still cups his hands under the stream and splashes it in his face. It does seem to be helping with something, his mind already starting to slow down and ground, so he does it again, managing to splash quite a bit onto the counter around the sink. Doesn’t matter. He’ll clean it later.

Finally, his body’s calmed down enough. He can still feel his heart trembling as he grips the edge of the sink with both hands, breathing out a long, shaky sigh.

“Wilde!”

The shout makes him jump nearly a foot in the air. On instinct, he snaps to cast disguise self, then whirls around, heart pounding once again, to make eye contact with Carter, sat on a stool on the other side of the island. The man’s brows are pulled together in concern, though judging by the half-empty bottle of cognac beside him, he’s as out of it as Wilde is. Which is no longer much, but still. At least he probably didn’t see the illusion being cast.

“I said your name like five times,” Carter says, now at a normal volume that’s still far too loud for the small living area. “Are you okay?” 

Wilde runs his still damp hand over his face, letting out another shaky sigh. He’d forgotten that the two of them were alone in here, Zolf and Barnes out dealing with some Harlequin business. It’s going to be a long night, he knows it already.

He points to the bottle of cognac, raising an eyebrow.

Carter looks at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then blinks and grins sheepishly. “Found it in the cupboard. Guess those Harlequins really do care, huh?” His words aren’t really slurring yet, but it’s only a matter of time with how little of the brandy there seems to be left. Wilde can’t necessarily blame him - he also would be downing as much alcohol as possible if he were stuck in a flat with just himself.

With another sigh, Wilde dries his hands with the towel on the counter. He just wants to get back to work. Falling asleep wasn’t on the schedule, and he needs to get this stuff finished yesterday, relentlessly shaking hands and thrumming anxiety be damned.

Carter seems to have other ideas. “You want some?” He tips the bottle of cognac Wilde’s way, a sly grin showing his intentions to be less than benevolent. 

Wilde stares at it for several long moments, the sharp refusal stuck in the back of his throat as his tongue refuses to cooperate with him. His chest aches with the latent panic curled inside it, leftover from the nightmare, and he just. Can’t get words out. In the end, all he can do is shake his head, hands curled into tight fists in a once again feeble attempt to stop the trembling.

Unfortunately, this doesn’t go unnoticed, despite Carter’s intoxication. “What, no tongue lashing? No, ‘This isn’t the time to fool around, Carter’?” The man’s eyes narrow, and he leans forward, peering at Wilde closer. “You look awful pale.”

The words just... aren’t coming. Wilde opens his mouth and the only thing that happens is that he continues to breathe, harder than what would be considered normal, and louder in the small kitchen than he’d ever like it to be. His throat constricts around the words, forcing them deeper down into his chest, where they’ll never come to the surface, where they’ll be safe from prying eyes and listening ears, where no one will ever know they lie.

Carter’s suspicious expression slowly changes to one of mild worry as the silence stretches, Wilde trying not to look at him. “Are you... okay?”

Wilde almost laughs. He hasn’t been ‘okay’ in months, hell,  _ years _ at this point. Why does Carter think that’ll have changed for one night? But even that refuses to come, the only sound he’s able to produce a strangled whisper of a thing that could be easily overlooked by anyone not listening hard enough. Carter’s eyes burn into his skin, and suddenly he can’t stand the feeling, even as that gaze turns to genuine concern.

‘Flight’ was always his preference over ‘fight’. He practically sprints back to the bedroom, ignoring Carter’s calls to wait, slamming and locking the door behind him.

The left-over anxiety hits him full force, taking his knees out, and somewhere in his exhaustion-addled mind, Wilde is grateful for the door behind him because without it he probably would have hurt himself collapsing to the floor. As it is, he simply drops against the wood, sliding to the carpet with his knees up, and stares at the opposite wall, his body having completely given up on him. He can barely move his fingers, let alone lift his arms. 

A few moments pass, and there’s a sharp knock. “Wilde? You better open this door, I’m not letting you die in there.”

_ I’m not dying, Carter _ , he can’t say. Can’t even make his lips move at this point. He’s just so... tired.

“Zolf’ll kill me if I let you kick it. Like, seriously kill me. ‘Drown me in a bucket’ kill me.”

_ He doesn’t drown people anymore. That was a Poseidon thing. In fact, he’d probably be offended you even brought it up. _

“I can just pick the lock, Oscar. Even if you hold the door closed, I’ll just go climb in through the window.”

_ I’ll just close and lock the window, too. I could go back and forth all night. _

There are a few drawn-out moments of silence, and Wilde’s almost sure Carter’s made good on that threat and gone outside, but then there’s a quiet thump on the other side, above his head. Carter’s voice is quieter now. “Look, I know you don’t like me. Probably hate me, even. I wouldn’t blame you. I’m annoying and kind of dumb and I made a lot of assumptions about you right off the bat when we met and that was really  _ stupid _ of me. And I might be a bit lashed and rambly, but-”  _ A bit? _ “-but I really don’t want you to hurt yourself. Or get hurt. Or dead. I really don’t want that.” Carter’s voice gets oddly soft, in a way that makes Wilde’s chest hurt - a sensation he absolutely does not welcome, but somehow can’t bring himself to repress. “You’re a good person, and there are a lot of good people out there waiting for you to help them.”

Wilde’s eyes sting, why do they sting? Why does he feel like he’s on the verge of crying? It can’t be Carter, it can’t be the things he’s saying, they’re just drunk blatherings that don’t mean anything at all and he shouldn’t be feeling like this and he should be  _ fine _ , he’s  _ fine _ , Carter shouldn’t be  _ worried _ , why is he  _ worried- _

The panic is rising in his throat, if he lets it spill over he’s going to fall a-fucking-part and he can’t do that here, not now, not with Howard Fucking Carter on the other side of the door. But he doesn’t see any other option, not with his only escape route being the window, and he used all his spells for the day on maintaining his illusion of being put together, so feather fall isn’t an option. And he’s really not looking for a broken leg today. Maybe-

Nope, that’s the sound of a lock being picked, he doesn’t have time. 

Wilde has barely fought his way back to his feet when the door flies open behind him, a triumphant, “Hah!” the announcement of Carter’s presence. Glancing around wildly for any way out of this situation, Wilde barely has time to react when Carter suddenly... pulls him into a hug.

No.  _ No. _ He isn’t. He is. Carter is hugging him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, cheek against his, chest to shaky chest. Wilde is frozen, one foot stepped back, eyes wide, hands open as if to lift them in a placating motion of  _ Seriously, Carter, it’s fine, go away- _ But no, the man is definitely here, in the room, and  _ hugging him _ .

And...

It’s not bad.

Wilde hasn’t been touched by any of them in weeks; nothing more than a quick hand on a shoulder, at any rate. Since the... Incident, he’s stayed far away from any sort of physical contact, knowing it would probably just remind him of the pain, that seeing him flinch would just make them pity him, that if he let them get close again he would just get hurt, or they would get hurt, or  _ someone _ would get hurt- And, somewhere deep down, terrified of experiencing something soft, something gentle, something comforting, because it would tear open age-old wounds inside his mind and possibly break him to pieces.

And now, Carter is hugging him. A hand moves into his hair, careful and slow, pressing his head gently forward into Carter’s shoulder. The tangled, trembling ball of anxiety and panic and fear and pain and frustration and terror in his chest shatters, shards burying themselves on the underside of his skin, and the ache of their cuts matches the ache in his eyes as the tears held back for so long finally overflow.

Wilde won’t let Carter see him cry. He won’t. So he buries his face in the man’s shirt and grabs desperately at his sides for some sort of purchase right as the silent sobs begin to force their way out.

Guilt and shame and anger rise in Wilde’s chest as he trembles. What the hell is he doing, showing so much weakness like this? It’s ridiculous, he’s not a child, he’s not Hamid. That thought makes the guilt shove any rational thought aside, swirling in his brain like a hurricane,  _ Hamid is gone, he’s gone like the others because you couldn’t do anything, because you were weak and cowardly and stupid and couldn’t handle a few lousy nightmares and nights of no sleep, they’re gone and you did nothing, can do nothing, and it’s only a matter of time before more people get hurt because of- _

“That’s it. Get it all out, man. It’s okay.” Carter’s murmurs cut sharply through the hateful, spiraling thoughts, a balm on so many wounds Wilde didn’t even know were there until they split open. It’s a little silly for Carter to tell him to cry, given that at this point, he probably couldn’t stop even if he tried, not for a good while; but the reassurances that he  _ can _ , that Carter’s not going to shove him away, that he’s  _ allowed _ to do this, it- It helps. Somehow.

They stand there for several long minutes, Carter slowly stroking Wilde’s hair and holding him through probably the worst breakdown he’s had in years. It feels good, despite the shame still lingering in his mind. It feels good, to cry, to weep, to just feel all of that fear and despair and anger without shoving it all down. Without judgment or ridicule. It feels- god, it feels almost  _ safe _ , here in another person’s arms, being told that he’s not a burden, not an afterthought, not something to just deal with and then throw away. He lets himself sink into Carter’s embrace, lets himself almost  _ enjoy _ it before the time inevitably comes that he has to pick himself up, put himself back together, and be less of a fuck-up.

Finally, his silent hiccupping sobs recede. They’re still just standing here, in the middle of the bedroom in this tiny flat on the outskirts of an abandoned, storm-blasted Cairo. And Wilde doesn’t want it to end. He honestly doesn’t, he just wants to stand here and be held and not be alone.

But he can’t. The anxiety returns once again, shame already finding purchase as the endorphin rush from crying fades. Wilde releases Carter’s shirt, taking in a deep shaking breath, and pulls away.

Carter is nearly vibrating with the need to speak as Wilde wipes his eyes with his sleeves. He’d really rather the man do anything else, but it’s not like he has a say in the matter, or even could express that say what with the fact that he _ still can’t get any fucking words out _ . It’s not necessarily a recent development, the whole ‘going nonverbal as a coping mechanism’ thing, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still annoying as hell. 

As Wilde snaps his fingers, instantly cleaning his face, Carter finally opens his mouth. “So that was something, huh?” He waves his hands placatingly when Wilde’s glare swings his way. “Okay, okay, no jokes, understood, got it.” He’s silent for a few seconds, which isn’t nearly long enough. “But seriously, you should- I don’t know, get some sleep? Eat something? Whatever people do after panic attacks? I’m not very good at this, Zolf would probably be much better, but it’s not like he’s here right now so I’m the best I’ve got, which to be honest isn’t great-”

Wilde flicks his hand, having forgotten that he 1) can’t speak and 2) has no spell slots left, and utterly fails to cast silence. However, Carter does stop speaking for a moment, staring bewilderingly as Wilde looks at his hand in distaste.

“Wh- was that a spell?”

He shakes his head in frustration, then walks back over to the desk where his paperwork is set up. If he can’t speak, he might as well get some more work done, since that doesn’t require his voice. Carter follows behind him like a puppy, peering over his shoulder as he sits down and making a grumbling noise upon inspection. 

“Man, don’t go back to work, you need some rest! You just wore yourself out sobbing in my arms-” Wilde rolls his eyes at the grin in the man’s voice, “-sleep is best after a good long cry.”

He ignores Carter, picking up his pen - which is then instantly snatched from his hand. 

“Well, if you can’t talk back then you can’t yell at me for making you do self-care. Come on. No working, only rest.” Carter begins gathering up the paperwork on the desk, completely messing up the order and Wilde’s gonna have to reorder it all over again and it’s going to be a pain- “Come  _ on _ , get up!” The ever-annoying rogue pulls on the back of the chair, and Wilde finally complies, standing and letting Carter almost fall over with the force of the tugging. The man’s still grinning though, even after stumbling over his own feet. “Finally!”

Wilde drags his hands down his face.  _ If it will get you to stop bugging me, then fine. _ He looks pointedly at Carter, then at the bed, and then at the door. For the record, Carter gets it quickly and dashes for the hallway, though he stops to give Wilde an,  _ I’m watching you _ look before the door closes.

He’s taken the paperwork with him. 

Alone, finally. Wilde sighs, sagging against the desk as all the fight goes out of him. He stares at the bed in trepidation - if he sleeps, he’s just going to have another nightmare, and he’ll wake up scared and panicky and replay it all over again. But it’s not like there’s much else to do at this point.

Maybe he’ll just... lie down. Doesn’t mean he has to sleep.

He doesn’t even bother taking his clothes off, just falls onto the mattress gracelessly and crawls into an appropriate position. It’s comfortable, he’s forced to admit, and his eyelids... do feel heavy. The room starts to blur as his gaze unfocuses, weariness finally overpowering his will, and though he fights it, his eyes fall closed.

The door creaks open, and though he knows it’s just Carter, it still makes his heart rate spike, though he can’t force his eyes back open. There’s... a clinking sound, like glass being set on a counter, and then the door creaks again, clicking shut.

His pulse settles down again, and he cracks one eye to see a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. 

Oh.

Well, that’s... something.

Warmth pools in Wilde’s chest, as much as he tries to repress it. Carter didn’t need to do that. Hell, Carter didn’t need to hold him while he cried his face off for what felt like three hours. He did, though. He did do that, and the swirling miasma of thoughts in Wilde’s brain starts to calm down. As much as he’d rather it didn’t...

Sleep comes eventually.  



End file.
